Sing A Little Song For Me
by Rogue Requiem
Summary: Takes place sometime after World After. A hurting sister, an agnostic angel, and a dying iPod help make the holidays a little easier to bear for Penryn. It's Christmas Eve, and baby, it's cold outside... Fluff is to be found here.


**A/N: Wow, so my first holiday-themed fic. This is definitely new territory for me, and I confess, it came completely out of nowhere. But it was so much fun to write! This is a ONE-SHOT, not a multi-chapter fic like I usually do. I hope you enjoy it nonetheless.**

**SPOILERS FOR _WORLD AFTER_ ABOUND HERE! DO NOT READ UNLESS FINISHED WITH _WORLD AFTER_. ****Expect Penryn/Raffe fluff and AU-ness, where everything is exactly the same except it's magically Christmastime, woo-hoo!**

**Please note: This is my first time writing in first-person, present tense, and it was really difficult for me. I'm normally a third-person, past tense writer, but I wanted to write this in Susan Ee's style to keep it similar to her actual story. I've tried to proofread and make sure that everything's the way it should be, but if anything strikes you as glaringly wrong, please tell me! I value your input!**

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_Sing A Little Song For Me_

You'd never know it just looking around, but it's Christmas Eve. But the absence of obnoxious multi-colored lights around the abandoned shop fronts do nothing to dim the atmosphere the holiday always seems to bring with it.

Despite the angel apocalypse, despite the new scorpion threat, despite the absence of open celebration, the few people I pass on the street seem to be happy.

Even the gangs carry an air of hope about them, as if they think that, if there were any night they can come across new angel parts to sell, it would be this night.

I'm not too sure about that. I don't know if the angels even celebrate Christmas in their own way, much less the human way, so it's uncertain whether they would be out and about tonight. I blame my confusion on Raffe's agnostic status, honestly.

I clutch my sword, the ill-named Pooky Bear, hanging at my side, drawing comfort from it as I continue my search. I don't want to wander too far from our current hideout, but I'm on a mission tonight, and I'm determined to see it through.

In the World Before, Paige had loved Christmas, adored it. Down to every corny Christmas carol and holiday movie. She would decorate our meager apartment with homemade crafts, and I would help her put them up in the high places she couldn't hope to reach. Mom would help, too, when she was on her medication. When she wasn't, she'd refuse, claiming the Santa Clauses in the rooms where monitoring her, watching her every move. At least she didn't claim demons were talking to her through the angel ornaments.

How ironic would that have been?

Speaking of angels, they've been oddly silent since we crashed Uriel's little election party. Since I killed Burnt, and Paige controlled the scorpions to bring down Beliel. At first, I thought Uriel would send a legion of angels after us. After all, a girl with an angel sword, another with a modified body that can control his locusts, and what appeared to be a demon who tore off Beliel's angel wings should at least appear as some kind of threat.

But apparently not. I guess Uriel really is that confident that humanity, even with a little extra help, isn't much to be afraid of. I can't tell if that's based on experience or cockiness on his part, but either way, I'll take it.

Especially if his arrogance is what allows me to give Paige a Christmas.

I step inside another store on the strip mall I've been wandering down, my shoes crunching on the broken glass beneath my feet. A quick survey of the single room tells me I'm alone here, and that this store in particular was ransacked to a nearly empty shell long ago. I move on.

At the next store, I have a little better luck. It's a RadioShack, and even though every cash register has been smashed open and cleaned out, a few miscellaneous electronics have been left behind. Even now, I'm still not exactly sure what I'm looking for. A snowman bauble? A Charlie Brown Christmas tree? RadioShack isn't exactly a market for either of those or holiday stuff in general. But as I fiddle with a phone charger that is hanging halfway out of its plastic case, I see it.

On the floor behind the checkout counter is a left behind iPod Touch, a mess of spider-web cracks across the screen. I pick it up gingerly, marveling at the cool touch of its metal back and its smooth surface despite the cracks. It's funny, in a sad sort of way. These things were so highly sought after in the World Before, from tech-savvy teenagers to high-strung business tycoons. I'd never so much as held one before now. Things like the newest gadget were way too far out of my family's budget to even contemplate getting one. And now that I'm holding one, it is next to worthless, having been left behind by owner and thief alike.

But that's how things go in the World After.

Curious, I press the lone button on the bottom center of the device, but nothing happens. Maybe it _was _left behind for a reason. But I soon find another, thinner button on the top and press it down. Instantly, the screen comes to life, and I see the iconic Apple symbol resting on top of a black background.

After a few seconds, the screen changes again, and I nearly drop the iPod out of alarm because the screen is so bright. Like a beacon. Mom's paranoia must have rubbed off on me, because I'm convinced that the thing will attract every gang member, angel, and scorpion in the vicinity if I can't figure out a way to tone down the light.

In hindsight, I realize how lucky I am that I'm even able to use the thing without inputting some sort of security code or something. Maybe the one I'm holding is an older model without that capability. I really have no idea. As it is, I struggle to figure out which icon I'm supposed to press to turn down the brightness. Eventually, I use common sense and find the option under the Settings application.

And with that obstacle out of the way, I suddenly have an idea of how I can use this thing.

I pull out the headphones from the bottom. One's been completely crushed by something, perhaps the foot of someone rushing frantically out of the store. The other is missing part of the earpiece. I can see the inside speaker and wiring, so they're pretty much useless anyway.

The iPod is showing half of its battery life remaining. Again, I'm not too sure what that means, and it may not even matter if I can't find what I'm looking for.

I tap the Music app and am instantly overwhelmed with the library its former owner has. Well, _had._ Eventually, I locate the Genre sorting option and scroll down the list. I think I've hit the jackpot when I find the one simply labeled as "Christmas."

Only to be disappointed when there's only one name listed there: Aretha Franklin.

Well, maybe it's a whole album. I can work with that. But only one song is listed there, and I wrinkle my nose in disgust at it.

It's "Angels We Have Heard On High."

"No," I murmur to myself, "Definitely not." There's only one angel I can stand to listen to for more than five minutes, and he's honestly annoying enough as it is.

Surely, I can do better than that. So I continue to scroll down, becoming more and more discouraged by the second. But at the word "Holiday," my heart soars. I tap the screen and—_yes!_

There's artist after artist on this list, from classics like Burl Ives to more modern artists like Reliant K and Coldplay. And it's all Christmas, and it's everything that Paige would love.

After a quick play of "Silver Bells" by Bing Crosby to check that the small speakers in the iPod work, I'm on my feet and leaving the store in my wake, my steps much lighter than before. I can't tell if it's the holiday itself or the fact that I'm doing this for my baby sister that's making me feel so buoyant. Perhaps both. After all, it _is _that time of year, that time of giving.

And I get to spend it with Paige again. And with Raffe for the first time. I wonder if this will be his first Christmas spent on Earth. Definitely the first with humans, I think. He'll probably find our traditions a bit strange in an amusing way. Hell, even I think that sometimes. But it's always been fun for me, so I don't really question it.

Walking back to our hideaway takes a little longer than I would like. We found an abandoned Holiday Inn practically squeezed between an office building and a Chinese restaurant. Most of the motel's windows are busted out and the doors unlocked. In the World Before, that would have been a clear sign to get out of there and move on, but in the World After, it is a place to sleep and keep warm from the elements. Besides, it's highly unlikely we'll be found, and if we are, well, I think the three of us have more than proven we know how to take care of ourselves.

I double back down side streets to make sure I'm not being followed. Feeling confident that I'm not, I approach the motel. Our room is located on the cabana level, so it's a simple matter of crossing the small, empty parking lot before I'm standing in front of our door. A few seconds at most but I feel so exposed and vulnerable being out in the open like this, alone. Our door is missing its doorknob and its key scanner, leaving a gaping hole of jagged wood in their place. I don't even like to imagine how that could have happened and hope whoever did it is long gone by now. I knock our signal on the wood, trying to ignore the hole and how it makes the fading, green paint on the door look even more sad and neglected. Shortly after, I hear something heavy being dragged away from the door. Then Raffe is there, his demonic wings framing his body and making the weak candlelight coming from the room seem even dimmer than it already is.

At the sight of him, I almost start laughing. Somehow-and I don't have any idea how-he's procured a Santa hat and is wearing it proudly on his head. The puffy, white ball on the end bounces off his shoulder as he moves. The image of such a bright, festive hat against his horrifying wings is truly a sight. Like seeing a mound of treasure guarded by the bones of someone who didn't make it out alive with them.

"Well, I see your search was fruitful," I say wryly, entering the room. Raffe shuts the door behind me and replaces the dresser to its post as a door lock.

"I've got Paige to thank for this," says Raffe, a small grin stretching across his face. "Same with all the candles around. Yet another example of the Young women' resourcefulness. I hope _you _don't disappoint."

"Do I ever?" I say, placing Pooky Bear next to my bed up against the wall. Free of the weapon, I fish the iPod out of my jacket pocket and hold it up proudly for the world to see. "Ta-daa!"

From her position sitting against the wall—and for the life of me, I don't understand why she keeps refusing the two double beds or the loveseat in the room—Paige's eyes light up at the sight of the iPod. I can tell she wants to smile—to beam in fact—but the pain in her stitches prevents her from doing so. Instead she hugs Raffe's wings, which she's been the silent keeper of since we got them back, closer to her slight frame. She's happy, but more than that, she's at ease. The most she's been since that horrible experiment made her what she is.

The winter chill that had escaped in from the door can't touch me now. I'm _that_ exuberant about bringing Christmas to my baby sister, about helping her forget about the constant pain she's in, if just for a little while.

Raffe on the other hand just looks bemused. "What," he says with a slight raise of an eyebrow, "is that?"

So Raffe isn't as attuned to human technology as Uriel is. Not surprising. Raffe is, if nothing else, very traditional. Sometimes, I think, to his detriment.

"It's a music player," I reply, deciding to keep things simple. We're not going to use it as anything else anyway.

I press the center button again. I can feel Raffe looking over my shoulder at the screen intently, studying the sleek device in my hands. His presence at my back is heavy, making me acutely aware of everything around me. Because of this, I flush at the sight of the wallpaper—which I hadn't registered before—that flashes on the screen before I can swipe the lock at the bottom: some young—and shirtless—actor, one of the previous owner's favorites no doubt. I decide to just ignore it and press the Music app a little harder than is necessary, and Raffe mercifully stays silent, though I know he saw it, too.

Finding the Holiday genre again, I decide to just set the list of songs on shuffle. We've still got half a battery life to enjoy this, so whatever happens, happens.

"Rockin' Around the Christmas Tree" by Brenda Lee immediately plays, and even though the sound isn't the clearest, I'm already grinning. We're starting it the classic way after all.

I turn the volume up a little more and place the iPod on the small coffee table resting in front of the floral-print loveseat shoved against the back wall.

Paige is tapping her foot and swaying slightly to the music, still hugging the feathers to her. But her eyes are closed in contentment, and I'm flushed with a newer, more comforting warmth than before. This is exactly what she needed.

Paige's happiness combined with Raffe's calm and amused expression over the song—one I'm sure he's never heard before—places me in such a tranquil mood that I forget where I am and what's been going on in the world lately. I hum along to the song, something I haven't done the likes of in what feels like a lifetime.

This is our version of caroling in the World After, and I like it just fine.

We go through song after song, some religious, others commercial in nature. It's not until "Sleigh Ride" comes on that I know this marks the best Christmas gift I've ever given Paige in our lives. "Sleigh Ride" and its many versions has been Paige's favorite Christmas song since she was just learning how to talk, and one she always managed to dance to despite the wheelchair. What I don't expect is for her to suddenly place Raffe's wings gently against the wall, rise to her feet, and begin dancing. For real.

Her movements are stiff and awkward. I know her body is in intense pain from the motions, but I can't tell her to stop. Not when she looks so joyful with her eyes shining with mirth and merriment, and definitely not when she holds a hand out for me to join her.

I take it instantly, because I've learned. This is my sister standing in front of me with the same eyes as she's always had, not a monster. Shying away from touching her before was a mistake, an awful, despicable mistake, which I can't afford to make again. I reach for her other hand, and together we sway gently in place, moving much slower than the tempo of the song really calls for. I feel tears building in my eyes, but I blink them back and smile instead. I don't want to alarm Paige or make her think I'm upset, because I'm not. It's just that I never expected to have the chance to actually _dance_ with my sister in either of our lifetimes.

It's a Christmas miracle, or it would be if I weren't constantly reminded of how Paige came to walk again in the first place.

The whole time, Raffe watches us from his lounging position on the loveseat, silent and inscrutable. No doubt thinking how strange we Daughters of Men are and how any of angelkind could fall for us. But if this really is considered strange, then I never want to be anything more or less than a Daughter of Men.

"Whoa, easy, easy," I say, as Paige's legs begin to wobble under her. She's exhausted herself dancing. Despite her new strength, we haven't been easy traveling companions. I imagine it's the pain that's finally caught up with her.

Paige smiles up at me as I help her sit against the wall again and hand her Raffe's wings. She accepts them, snuggling her face into their soft recesses. I beam right back.

"Lucky break, huh?" I say. "That we found your favorite song on here?" Paige nods back.

"What's your favorite Christmas carol, Penryn?" says Raffe from behind me. I look over my shoulder to see him holding the iPod in his hand, scrolling down the screen with his thumb.

I take a second to think. I'm fond of many Christmas songs, so pinning one down as my favorite is hard, but I eventually settle on one.

"'O Holy Night'," I reply. Raffe sends a curious look at me.

"Sounds religious," he remarks. "I didn't think you were the type."

"I'm not, really," I say, and it's the truth. "There's just something about that song that I've always found…moving. And it's so beautiful to hear. Well, maybe not compared to your angelic choirs or whatever," I finish dryly.

He lets out a scoffing sound but his intent is focused solely on the iPod. Is he looking for it to play?

His lips suddenly quirk in what looks like disappointment, and when he looks back up at me, his eyes are heavy with something. "It's not here."

"Oh," I say, not knowing how to react. "That's too bad."

I feel a tug on my jacket sleeve, and when I look back, Paige gives me what I've termed her sad kitten look. It's more lethal than puppy dog eyes, and Paige still manages to make it look utterly adorable despite her stitches. I brace myself, knowing, _dreading_ what's coming next.

"Ryn-Ryn." Oh, no. There went any defense I still had left. "Sing, Ryn-Ryn."

I could curse.

I used to sing to Paige all the time when I was a little younger, especially after Dad left. But I haven't in a long while. And I was never that outstanding of a singer to begin with. To do so now, with this particular song, in front of this particular angel…

But how can I say no?

I sigh. "Alright. When this song finishes."

Raffe's foot taps to the current song—now "Run Rudolph Run"—but it's a little too fast for the beat, and I realize he's impatient. My eyes meet his and the intrigue I see there quickens my heart rate, and the jacket I'm wearing feels a little too hot and stuffy. All at once, my good cheer evaporates and a bundle of nerves buzzes itself to life in my stomach. I turn to look fully at Paige. If I focus only on her, maybe I'll get through this.

The songs ends much quicker than I would have liked, and I'm still trying to run through the lyrics in my head to make sure I remember them correctly. But I know I'm taking a little too long, so I clear my throat and decide to just get on with it.

My voice is terribly shaky through the first verse. I try to settle on an artist who's done the song before to mimic their style and get myself through this, but I can't settle on any one. For some reason, though, the line "A thrill of hope the weary world rejoices" sends a surge of emotion through me, and my voice becomes stronger and clearer with it. It has to be the power this song just naturally has, because I could have never managed otherwise.

At the chorus, my voice rings strong and true, as this part of the song calls for. However, I feel my voice go slightly flat and a bad taste enters my mouth as I sing the line, "O hear the angel voices!" How could I have forgotten about _that_ part in the song? But I push on and recover, because this isn't for me, I realize. It's for Paige.

And to some degree, it's for Raffe, too, though I'm not sure what I'm trying to prove or accomplish by it.

I run through the rest of the song without incident. I can't help but feel like my voice sounds too shrill on some parts, stretched too thin on others. It's probably laughable compared to those in heaven.

Looking at Paige, though, who is now resting soundly asleep against the wall, all I can think is, screw the angels and screw heaven. I'd like the see them try and sing any human to sleep now, especially my little sister. All they'd be able to ignite now is disgust and fear—and not the reverent kind, but the kind that encourages the fearful to strike back, to save themselves from danger.

Or so I like to think, anyway.

The sound of soft clapping comes from behind me, and I turn to see Raffe tapping his hands together lightly so as not to disturb Paige. There's a small smile on his face, but I can no more read into it than if he was wearing that same inscrutable look as before.

"Not bad," he says, "for a human."

I roll my eyes.

"I'd love to see you do better," I quip back, but it's all airs, and we both know it.

Raffe smirks. "I'm more of a 'kneel before me and despair' kind of angel than some singing cherub choir boy. But someday, I may just make you eat those words."

"Yeah, well, I'll believe it when I hear it."

I come to the table and pick up the iPod. It's down to a third of its battery life. I turn the volume down a bit and then resume the song list from where Raffe paused it before. "Christmas Eve/Sarajevo 12/24" by the Trans-Siberian Orchestra starts playing. Appropriate, though I'm not sure how late it is. Maybe Christmas Eve has passed and Christmas morning begun already.

"You were right, though," he goes on, and I'm a little lost at the abrupt switch in the conversation before he continues. "About the song. It was very moving. And beautiful."

It's hard not to take that as a compliment, seeing as _I'm_ the one who sang it and made it beautiful, but Raffe has to be talking about the words themselves. Not me. He'd said once that I had the look that the angels were searching for, the beautiful look, but well, look where that really ended up for me.

"Yeah, whether you believe in the words or not, I think just about everyone likes the song. It's just _that _good."

Distractedly, I spin the iPod around on the table and watch it turn in place, circle after circle. The movement makes the sound warp slightly, but I don't stop it. I'm not sure where this sudden need to speak comes from, but I feel like I have to share it.

"Mom told us the Nativity story every year. When she was still on her meds. We even went to a few plays about it at some local churches. Very casual stuff for us. I've always liked it, I just—I don't know. I've never given much thought to concepts like God, or the Son of God, or salvation. Didn't seem important then.

"And now when it's perhaps more important to think about than ever, I can't help but be that person who asks, 'Where is God now? If He exists, then why is He letting this happen?' And then you even said that you've never even seen Him, so… I don't want to be that person, but…" I trail off, not really knowing where I'm going with all of this.

"But," Raffe finishes, saying nothing more, and it's so definitive. The certainty in that one word fills me with a sudden relief. Whatever I was getting at, he seems to understand completely—and agree. After all, God—His existence even—is a mystery to His own Archangels. How am I even supposed to approach that, expect by doing what I've always done? By just living and taking care of my family.

Raffe's smooth voice interrupts my thoughts, and I watch him as he talks with a look on his face as if he's studying a labyrinth and trying to decide which route to take through it. "There's always been something about humanity's faith—in anything and everything that your kind believes in—that's intrigued us. But you'll never hear any of the others admit that, and you'll never hear me admit it again. I think, though, that's why you all have persevered through this like you have. Why guys like Obi still gain followers and still pose as a threat, despite what Uriel thinks. It's what's keeping you alive. Maybe," he falters for a moment, then presses on in a more pensive tone, "maybe that's part of why my brothers fell before."

"Maybe," I say back softly, not knowing the reasons why anymore than Raffe does.

I shove off from the table and unzip my jacket to throw it onto one of the beds. I only have one other change of clothes, but thankfully they're clean. I grab them from inside the dresser in front of the door.

"I'm gonna take a shower. Keep the music playing. I think it's soothing to Paige."

I don't look back.

I do smile, though, when I hear Raffe humming a song that's very different from the one currently playing. It sounds suspiciously like "Grandma Got Run Over By A Reindeer." He'd had a fit over that when it played earlier.

_He certainly learns fast, no surprises there_. Already he knew how to work the iPod. Makes sense that he would learn lyrics on the first listen, too.

A candle's been lit in the bathroom also, and I could see either one of my companions thinking of it. As I fiddle with the shower taps, I'm immensely grateful. Who knows how I would have managed to figure all this out in total darkness? The water in the shower is slightly less than lukewarm, which would have been fine if the season was summer. As it is, my body quickly takes to shivering, trying to warm itself under the steady stream of water. I lather the sticky motel soap in my hands, trying to hurry along as fast as I can. I know I should appreciate this; who knows how long it'll be before I can even change into clean clothes again much else shower?

Unbidden, a song lyric floats into my head like a stray bubble in the wind. _But baby, it's cold outside_. I'm shaking with laughter now and almost inhale water through my nose. _Outside? Hell, it's pretty damn cold in here, too._

A smile forms on my lips at my absurdity. I blame it on the singing from earlier. Paige is to blame, too, and Raffe for being interested in the first place. But maybe the real culprit is Christmas itself.

After all, I'd forgotten. I'd forgotten how elevating singing could be, how freeing. Even if you're not too good at it, there's something about making music with nothing but your voice that's special. Incomparable. It's one of those few, closest things we get to creating something out of nothing like God once did, if such a being exists.

Before I know it, I'm humming again, continuing the song where I left off and attempting—and failing—to cover both parts. I grab a bottle of the motel shampoo, and like the yellow, watery substance inside the bottle, the words soon tumble smoothly from my lips, quietly at first, barely audible over the falling water. I focus solely on the female part now, and I let my voice build, wanting to feel that same free feeling again. Like my future with another shower, this feeling is uncertain. I have to treasure it, exploit it, while I can.

But I've never been the type to linger and waste. As soon as I'm done rinsing my hair, I turn the water off and step out of the shower, barely getting through half of the song. The silence in the bathroom is thick, and aside from the rustling of the towel against my body, I do nothing to break it. I smother my hair with the towel to get as much excess water out of the dark mass as I can. There's no electricity available to use the spare hair dryer, and my fingers become a substitute for a brush. They're better than nothing.

Freshly changed into my "pajamas" aka my next travel outfit, I hang the towel on the bar of the shower. It should be dry by tomorrow for Paige's use, if she wants it. Raffe's already passed on a shower, which normally I'd argue, but he always looks and smells so clean. I don't know how he does it. I'm honestly only upset because now I can't imagine how he'd flail around in the shower with his wings going every which way. Well, I guess I _can_ imagine it; it's just not the same since he won't actually be doing it at some point.

Paige is still sleeping against the wall when I return to the main room. I don't really want to, but I leave her where she is. Raffe and I have learned not to move her when she's powered down; she tends to lash out.

An instrumental piece, slow and quiet, rings from the iPod now, something I don't recognize. Raffe is reclined on his back across the loveseat with one leg dangling over the armrest and his wings folded tightly against his body. His Santa hat has fallen to the floor in a crumpled heap, leaving his hair messier than usual. He's so still that I think he's fallen asleep, too.

But then he opens his big, fat mouth and spoils the illusion.

"I should have known, I guess. Expected it, really," he says, and though he's keeping his voice down for Paige, I have no trouble hearing the mixture of resignation and teasing in it. "Leave it to the Daughters of Men to turn even the most innocent of occasions into a scene of desire."

"What?" I ask, confused. And a little defensive, honestly. What in the world is he talking about?

In response, Raffe picks up the iPod and turns two songs back. I know what it is within the first few notes: "Baby, It's Cold Outside."

My face flushes, and I don't even have a hot shower to blame it on. Had he possibly heard me in the shower? How loud did I even sing? But with the hearing he has, maybe it didn't even matter. Maybe he would have heard it if I'd only mumbled it.

But no, it'd just come on the iPod and that was why…. I can't believe it. What were the odds I would sing part of the song moments before or after the iPod played it? With a limited playlist, though, probably higher than one might think.

I could have argued the point with myself all night, but I force myself back to the present. Did he seriously just imply what I think he did? Last I listened, there are two singers in this song, and only one of them is a _Daughter_ of Men.

"Obviously, you didn't listen clearly enough. She was trying to do the good thing and leave, but _he _was the one making up excuses for her to stay."

The smile he sends my way is infectious, but I refuse to catch on. His eyes are alight with challenge, and I can tell he's pleased. I've never seen someone so happy to have an argument, except for maybe Dee-Dum. "Her very presence was enough. She was playing the game just as much as he was."

"Game?" I cross my arms. "I don't see any game. Maybe playful banter or—or mutual loneliness at work, but not a game."

"Oh, there's certainly a game at play here. Trust me on this. I've been around longer than you have."

"Maybe you have but not as a player," I retort. "So, how do you know?"

"Does a person need to have played the game to know there's one being played? To understand the rules, even?"

He had a point there. I've never played football a day in my life, but I understand the game.

"Fine, if there's a game, then you admit it takes more than one to play. Y'know, ignoring Solitaire. The woman is hardly the one at fault here."

"Perhaps not solely," he amends, and that grin is back. The one that makes me uneasy yet excited all at the same time. The one that I'm never too sure what it means.

"Oh, really?" The sarcasm drips from my words like a leaky faucet. "Let's find out then."

Raffe scoots over to let me sit down beside him on the loveseat with a decent amount of distance between us. I tap the iPod a few times, starting the song over from the beginning. I decide to turn the volume down a little bit more; I'm not sure if our arguing has disturbed Paige at all, but just in case, I don't want to distress her sleeping state further.

I hum along to the first line of the girl's part, unable to resist. It comes as a complete shock when Raffe's voice rumbles smoothly from beside me, clear and confident and beautiful, and I can imagine his vocal range is absolutely extraordinary.

Guess that day he was warning me about before is today. And of course, he already has the words down perfectly.

Instead of the previous anxiety I felt at the thought of singing in front of him, I feel compelled to sing along with him. To outmatch him, to show him in some way that he can't outdo me in this argument. It's an asinine thought, but it gives me the strength and nerve to continue.

I don't want to confess that I just want to take this opportunity as far as I can. It's not harmonizing, exactly. Our lines, after all, are incredibly different from each other, but somehow, I feel closer to him than ever before. How many humans can say they've sung with angels? How many could say they've sung with this one in particular?

How many have even heard the _voice_ of this one in particular? There's no doubt in my mind. What's happening now is a privilege. A great privilege. Possibly a terrible one, too.

I can't help it. I allow my eyes to drift up only to find his already watching me. What he must see in mine, I'm afraid to think. My guard is completely down, and I don't know how to get my shields back up. I can't. Not while I'm singing, and I _have_ to sing. Don't I? There was a point to this, wasn't there?

Raffe, by comparison, looks so relaxed, his mouth raised in a slight smile as the words escape it. He's clearly enjoying himself. He looks solid and approachable, like a lighthouse during a storm. Only I don't feel like I'm being guided to safety necessarily. And yet this doesn't feel particularly dangerous, either. Who knows where this is taking me, taking us?

We're well and truly singing together. Even, by all appearances, _for_ each other. That's how I'm gonna call it.

And everything is fine until he gets to the line about my hands feeling like ice. Because it's then that I realize, that, yes, they _are_ freezing, so much so that I jump slightly when one of his large hands encloses one of mine in its smoldering embrace.

In disbelief, I dart my eyes down at our hands, confirming that actual handholding is really happening, that I haven't just imagined it in an elaborate scheme. I see it, but I still have trouble believing it. Because with everything he's said about angels and Daughters of Men and _it is forbidden_, it makes no sense why he's suddenly disregarding everything he believes in.

And then I remember. The game. The point. The song. He's just acting. He's acting out the words of the song as they happen.

But what point is he really proving if _he's_ the one making the first move? Or did I do that when I suggested listening to the song to begin with? Either way, I'm quickly losing sight of the rules, both the ones in place for this little game and the others in place between us in the real world.

As such, I stammer out the next line, "M-my mother will start to worry." _Especially since she thinks you're a demon prince._

"Beautiful, what's your hurry?" Raffe sings, and his voice is deeper and somehow silkier than I ever thought could be possible. I have to scream at myself—_ACTING ACTING ACTING JUST LIKE AT THE AERIE FOCUS_—in order to continue.

"My father will be pacing the floor—" _Yeah, right._

"—Just listen to that fireplace roar," he finishes, gesturing exaggeratedly to a fireplace that isn't present in front of us. I smile, despite the fact that he let go of my hand in order to do so.

The more we—no, really, the more _he_—sings, the lighter my head feels. It's like I've been drugged, but instead of being alarmed at the thought, I'm complacent instead. I'm simply floating in place, not wanting to come down or to go any higher for fear of losing the wonderful state I've found myself in.

During the banter about having more to drink and the girl questioning what the guy put in it, I don't know whether to try to lurch myself out of my fogginess to argue my point or to simply grin stupidly. What results is an awkward half-wince, half-smile forming itself on my face, and that's when I realize that I _have_ been drugged, but alcohol isn't to blame. It's the fault of the stupid, smug, utterly adorable angel warrior sitting next to me. Him and his big, dumb voice of celestial beauty.

_Ugh._

"I wish I knew how…" I practically breathe out. My voice sounds so breathless, and Raffe can tell. I _know_ he can.

"Your eyes are like starlight now."

_Christ. _"To break this spell…" _Except I don't want to. I never want to._

"I'll take your hat, your hair looks swell."

I'm not sure what he'd intended to do. Maybe pretend to remove a hat from my head just like he pretended a fireplace was in the room or like he's pretending this whole song. But the moment his hand touches my hair, he freezes for the briefest second. His eyes widen the smallest noticeable amount, then he tangles his fingers in my hair. I can feel them brushing against my scalp, and that's when I remember that tonight I finally got around to washing it, and thank whoever is out there for that, because it's probably amazingly soft now. And unlike my hand, it doesn't seem like Raffe's letting go of it anytime soon.

But what does that mean for me?

Somewhere, I find the courage to continue. "I oughta say, 'No, no, no, sir—'"

"Mind if I move in closer?" And just like that, he does, or maybe he tugs me forward, I don't know. All at once, I can make out every speck of color in his eyes and see all the ways the flickering candlelight in the room plays with the angles of his face. But the scant inches between us make us seem farther apart than ever. I want to close that distance desperately, but I know I can't.

"At least I'm gonna say that I tried," I sing mournfully. No truer words have been spoken tonight.

A grin settles itself on Raffe's face, and he lifts an eyebrow slightly while singing, "What's the sense in hurting my pride?" His voice rumbles through me, either because of his proximity, his hand in my hair, or both. It's embarrassing, but I have to remind myself to breathe enough to be able to sing and function normally.

When we harmonize on the title line, I oddly feel a bit of pressure leave my body, as if the melding of our voices somehow compensates for the things I yearn for us to experience together but know we can't. At least there's this. We'll always have this.

For the briefest of moments, I glance Paige's way. I nearly forgot that she is still in the room with us. I'm sure this is quite a scene she's been exposed to…only to see she's still asleep. I was right, then, about the exhaustion. It's with Paige in my troubled thoughts that I mumble out, "My sister will be suspicious—"

But Raffe's answering response is strong, and the wanting that leaks through his voice drags me firmly back to him. "Gosh, your lips look delicious…" When I see that his eyes are no longer on mine but directed where I knew they'd be—but hoped they wouldn't—it's only the reminder of his hand in my hair that holds me back from granting that want. Because there's no way he would let me, not when he could so easily control the situation, not when he could deny himself the Fall. The excuse that it's all an act on his part sounds increasingly hollow, especially on my end, but it's the only real defense I've got left.

"And my brother will be there at the door—"

"—Waves upon a tropical shore." I was hoping that, like a wave, this tension between us would break, if for no other reason than to save me my sanity. But this damn song—this damn, I admit, too-sensual-to-be-appropriate-for-Christmas song—just wouldn't let that happen.

"My maiden aunt's mind is vicious—"

Raffe's eyes jump back up to mine, and there's no stopping or hiding the heat that floods my face. "—_Ooh, baby_, you're so delicious," he practically moans out.

I want to die. Death would be preferable to this torture, especially considering I almost answer his desire with a sound of my own, and I don't have any kind of line to use to cover it up or make it work for me.

I squeak out, "Maybe just one little kiss more…" and it nearly kills me. Because we haven't kissed yet_. _Not tonight, not to this song._ Why can't we? Why _aren't_ we?_

But I'm nothing if not a survivalist, so I use the next stanza to get ahold of myself and recover what's left of my dignity.

I finally get a chance to strike back one more stanza later. All I've endured so far has led up to this moment of retribution.

Pouring all of my sincerity into my voice, I trill, "You've really been grand." Because he has been. Even from the start, this angel has been nothing like what I've come to accept as being normal for his kind. Losing his wings had to have been what'd done it, and while I know the experience was horrible for him, I'm strangely…glad. I would've never met him or even helped him if not for that one moment.

Raffe's gaze searches mine. "I thrill when you touch my hand," and to my ears, it sounds like a confession.

So I seek to prove it.

Reaching out, I brush my fingers against his free hand and receive my own rush at seeing his eyes widen and his jaw go slightly slack, as if he couldn't believe I'd dared to use his technique against him. Even when he decides to retaliate by massaging his fingers against my scalp, I manage to prevent myself from succumbing to the shivers his touch sends down my spine. Instead, I thread my fingers through his and bring our palms together. Behind him, his wings twitch restlessly, though their daggers remain sheathed.

"But don't you see?" comes crooning out of my voice, with so many things left unsaid. _Don't you see what you've started? Don't you see what you mean to me? Don't you see what we can achieve together? _But I can't interrupt the song to say it. I can never say any of it; the song is just an excuse. So I cram these thoughts into the vault in my mind, hoping it'll hold for just a bit longer.

"How can you do this thing to me?" Raffe sighs, and the mutual amount of sadness, wonder, and fatalism I hear there causes a slight pain to bloom in my chest, pushing through the warm tingles of pleasure that still linger in my body. All I want to do is cry out _I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry_ until he forgets it all and smiles again. I'm damning him, and I don't want that. I never want that.

I remove my hand and my gaze from his reluctantly, and I hate myself for it. "There's bound to be talk tomorrow—"

His voice comes forcefully. "—Making my lifelong sorrow," and instead of releasing me like he should, he angles my head to make my eyes meet his again.

We're not arguing about the song any longer. We're way past that. This is something else. "At least there will be plenty implied," I sing out, a stern reminder to him. _Remember your brothers? Remember your place in heaven? You can't fix all of this if you're Fallen…_

"If you caught pneumonia and died…" His voice cracks slightly at the end, a minimal flaw, but it's the first one he's made all night. I realize then what he's trying to tell me.

My supposed death at the aerie rattled him; I saw that for myself. The implication that I died only to be brought back to die in front of him again, well… It's nice to know the thought of my mortality worries more than just me from time to time.

"I really can't stay," I smile through my lilt, but it's not happy. I can't pretend that far. He's obviously better at this than I am.

Raffe smiles back, but I notice it's not as bright as before, either. "Get over that old out." His protesting words are at odds with his hand, which finally relinquishes my hair and moves to rest by his side innocently once more.

Our voices match in unison once again, while ironically our bodies are no longer even touching. "Baby, it's cold outside."

As soon as the words leave me, the cold in the room sets in. I hadn't noticed until now how much not having a heater made such a difference in the winter. A chill creeps up my spine, and I shiver. I much prefer the other kind of shivers, the ones Raffe ignited within me.

But, what's the use in thinking on it now?

The song as I know it is over, so I'm confused when this current version continues with speaking parts as opposed to singing ones.

_It _is _kinda chilly.  
Just stay right here, baby. You ain't gotta be nowhere.  
Hmm, alright, you win, hahaha._

My face falls. After all that, did she just…_give in_ to him? Then that means… She _was_ playing the game, just as much as he was. Raffe had been right. Then—wait a minute.

Raffe had heard this song while I was in the shower, meaning that he'd known about this ending _the whole time_.

He seemed to notice the exact moment I come to this agonizing—not to mention, embarrassing—conclusion, because after turning the iPod off, he crosses his arms and his grin turns smug.

"See? What'd I tell you? I've been around longer than you have, Penryn."

"If I could smother you with a pillow right now, I _so _would."

I spring from the loveseat as if it'd suddenly become a hot coal. Guess who's going to bed angry—and sexually frustrated—tonight? Surprise, it's me.

I stop my angry stomp to the bed when I glance back over at Paige. She's shivering. I can even hear her teeth chattering due to the thickening silence in the room. Barely stopping to think, I grab my discarded jacket and delicately drape it over her small body. It's not going to be enough, not with how far the temperature's dropped. Before I can rip off the comforter from my bed to just give to her, I hear the dresser being scrapped to the side again.

Raffe opens the door and says back to me,"I'll go see if there's an extra blanket I can find for her."

He's gone before I can properly thank him for the thought.

But being alone with my thoughts is even more unwelcome than being with the subject of my embarrassment. How do I even make heads or tails of what just happened?

The short answer is, I don't. Still, though, there's something that's been bothering me about this since he first mentioned the song.

What _were_ the odds that I'd sing "Baby, It's Cold Outside" in the shower just moments before the iPod played it? I have no doubt that if Raffe wanted to listen in on my little karaoke session, he could have… And naturally, he would have gotten curious, would want to have known what I was singing. And since it was Christmas, surely I'd be singing a Christmas carol…

Something I noticed with the iPod is that it keeps up with how many songs have been played in a list. If the iPod's still at a high number like it was before I showered, then I guess coincidence gets a point for the night.

But if it's a low number…

I snatch the iPod from the place we'd left it on the coffee table. Jamming the center button, I wait impatiently for some weird circle thing to quit buffering or whatever it's doing. Finally, it gets done, and I swipe the lock screen and see the apps flash onto the screen for a mere moment before the screen flashes back to black. Only an empty battery symbol and an arrow pointing to a USB cable show on the screen before everything fades away.

The iPod dies before I can get my answer.


End file.
